


Without Interruption

by Chichuri



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-02
Updated: 2009-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chichuri/pseuds/Chichuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia and Peter finally get a moment alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Interruption

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Porn Battle VII, back in January. Just now remembering to post it elsewhere. Prompts used: walls, interruption.

The door swings shut behind Astrid and Walter, leaving Olivia and Peter alone in the lab.

Alone, with no emergency, no case, nothing else to distract them.

Olivia doesn't know who moved first, but his hands tangle in her hair and hers curve against his shoulders and their lips are fused by the heat that's been building between them for weeks. Months. Maybe even since that dry and dusty afternoon in Iraq.

It's not their first kiss—first kisses are never this good—but each kiss has left her wanting more and each interruption has compounded her frustration.

Her hands trail down his back, under his shirt until warm skin is finally against her palms. Her fingers trace the flex of the muscles of his back, dig in when he drops open-mouthed kisses along her the line of her jaw. She tilts her head back to allow him easier access and reminds herself to breathe.

"Thank God for Astrid," he murmurs reverently against her throat.

"Should I be jealous?" Her smile becomes moan when he nips her collarbone.

"Do _you_ want to be interrupted by Walter? _Again_?"

Her laugh is breathy; he worked open the buttons of her shirt while she was distracted and those long, clever fingers are dancing patterns against her ribs and teasing the edges of her breasts. Retaliating, or maybe encouraging, she strokes down his sides to his hips then forward, cupping him through his jeans and reveling in the hitch of his breath. She unbuttons his jeans and slides down his zipper, then gives a wicked grin and changes tactics. She pulls his shirt up and off, tosses it behind her, and pushes him against the wall.

Her shirt and jacket drop to the floor, followed quickly by her bra. Her eyes never leave his, watching him watching her, and pleasure curls through her at the heat in his gaze. He reaches out, slides his palm down her arm, along the curve of her hip, like he can't quite believe she's real. She leans forward to kiss him, slow this time, letting herself taste and tease and convince him, convince herself, she's here.

Slow doesn't last long.

He gets a hand between them, slips under her waistband and down, and her knees nearly give.

"Bench," she gasps. The rest of their clothes are shed in those few feet. She straddles his lap, arms braced on the back of the bench.

With a wry smile, he cups her face between his hands, strokes her cheekbones with his thumbs. "Not quite how I'd imagined our first time. Not in the damned lab, at least. Maybe a bed."

She grins at the sarcasm, grins more at the sentimentality poking through. "We can waste time going back to my place if you want, maybe risk our chance at finishing anything."

He gives a low growl, and the condom's on. She sinks and his hips surge up and she can't tell if the shudder as he enters is hers or his but her ecstasy is echoed on his face. As they begin to move he keeps up a low and throaty murmur of endearments and encouragements that thrills her even more. His groans mix with her gasps, and his voice becomes ragged and desperate as their rhythm escalates, until her back arcs and her control shatters and takes his along with it.

The aftermath hasn't even stopped tremoring through her when her phone rings.

"Oh, God." She drops her forehead to his, debates not answering, sighs. Peter laughs when she swivels to look for her jacket and refuses to let go even after she's fished the phone out of her pocket.

It's Broyles. Of course.

"Quiet," she mutters at Peter, then answers the phone. "Dunham."

She ignores that her heart's still pounding and she's sprawled in Peter's lap, and listens to the new case, asking questions at appropriate intervals and summoning enough professional detachment to fix the details in her mind. Her voice even stays level when Peter starts nibbling at the spot where her neck and shoulder join, although she can't stop the shiver of appreciation.

 After she hangs up she turns and glares. "Was that necessary?"

He pulls her into another kiss.

"Bodies turned inside out?" he asks when she reluctantly pulls away.

She shrugs. "The fun never ends."

"Where to?"

 "We," she laces their fingers together, "have a gruesome crime scene in Ashland."

He grins, squeezing her hand then lifting it to kiss the knuckles. "No place else I'd rather be."


End file.
